[GZG] [GZG Fiction] Road Trip

Road Trip

War maybe dirty, but a desert war is an exposition of stench. Bringing the
essential essence of battle to new highs, or lows depending on your opinion
and sense of smell. The field showers didn’t last more than 10 days –
between direct attack, vehicle loss and cargo prioritisation. So now we have
an allocation of 800mL per day for hygiene, body and clothes. The hardier and
least modest stand naked in the sand, but the
frigid air and cloying red fines made that seem both self-defeating and
unappetising to me. Rurik has shown me the trick of standing in a box, part
modesty screen, part sand shield. Even that doesn’t keep out all the fine
powdered sand though, which quickly turns to viscous mud. When hardened this
is almost impossible to remove. Rurik carved scrapers from parts of a surplus
packing crate. They helped a little, but washing remains a largely futile
exercise.

The monotonous rolling dunes and rocky plains don’t provide much in the way
of stimulating terrain. The rising sun spreads rapidly, but there is little
heat. It is always cold. There is the odd insect or other sign of small life,
but the cold is affecting them too.

Day after day, night after night the patrol stretches on. Travel by day, camp
in fortified positions by night. It is as if I’ve joined the modern
incarnation of a Roman legion.

I try to get my notes straight in the evenings, while the others read books,
play cards, snore face down on cots or wrestle. Their lean bodies embrace in
scenes reminiscent of ancient gymnasia. Although the multifarious, nearly
ubiquitous, tattoos, guttural swearing and no holds barred enthusiasm gives
the scene a modern touch.

Even in play these soldiers are unsparing. Racing along cleared tracks in bare
foot sprints. Arm wrestling until their biceps go rigid and their faces glow
rubicund. Jockeying with one another they also spar. Circling, with punishing
slams, punches to thighs, ribs, stomach and shoulders, gouging, headlocks.
Nothing seems off the table for the
3-minute bouts and then its all laughs and on to something else. I’ve
not seen rules posted or discussed, but there is a sense of control despite
the apparently merciless nature of the contests. You see the unmodified tussle
with the highly engineered and every one seems to know what is and isn’t
allowed.

As the days coalesce one into the other even the most optimistic of us are
reconciled to celebrating yet another yuletide under these skies. Long wars
are draining, of supplies, men and morale, but this fight is as keenly needed
as when we began. Those with broad vision know we can’t give an inch to the
Krak. If we’re ever going to eradicate them we need not only to draw down
their original force, but kill off all those whelped on planet since. I’m
told there is a lot of argument in civie pubs about whether they really are
reproducing on Mars. To my eyes there seems to be an unending stream of them,
but really it’s a moot point to most here. They don’t have a god’s eye
view of the theatre, but they just get on with it. They pursue their goals
hard, living, fighting and playing hard.

***

Dawn was breaking as we broke camp on the 6th. We’d been on patrol for 9
weeks now. Stop and go about every 48hours. I spent my time lately split
between reporter, driver in training under Rurik and as a medic for recon. We
had seen a fair few short fire fights, though no major engagements, which may
have been why recon had been fairly patient with me.

Rurik swung by to check I was all stowed away and found me securing some
stim-packs to the back of my helmet.

“Zee teech yoo vell” he grinned.

I had to agree with him. I’d learnt a lot over the last few weeks, even more
than I’d spent in the long months at Marin. They’d drummed into me that if
it was important, tie it on! Weapons, gear, prized possessions, everything
gets a maglink or lanyard back to the body. If it doesn’t it will inevitably
fall off at some point. It’ll fly off at some inopportune time, get
swallowed by sand, get dropped without you
noticing, or most likely of all get left behind when your sleep-deprived
brain loses track.

Rurik checked over the troop transport and then wandered back over to where I
was sitting, leaning up against the wheel of the transport. He slipped his
helmet down over his eyes and within a minute his chest was
slowly rising and falling in sleep. Even with all the toing-and-froing
as people packed up their kit into the other trucks arrayed around us. That
man could doze in the middle of a bombing run.

I sat cross-legged with my helmet cradled between them. The stim-packs
kept slipping just as I tried to complete the knot. I felt like I had three
thumbs on each hand. Paulie slipped down beside me, startling me.

“Easy boy” he said reaching over and plucking my helmet from me. He
slipped a loop of chord from a pocket on the side of his thigh. Flicking open
a knife he cut the chord into a shorter length, attaching it to a clip on one
end. He then pushed it through the little slots in the top corner of each
packet, using the point of the knife to carefully encourage it through the
tight spot. He slipped it round and back through a clip. Pointing to the knots
around the slots he said, “Do it that way and even if the bridge is cracked
the ends won’t completely split. They’ll at least hang round long enough
for you to find them a
new home.” Then he clipped the string of stim-packs to my helmet, one
clip attaching to an anchor midway along the left side of the helmet,
the second clip to an anchor on the right. The stim-packs sat in tight
against the back of the helmet.

“By the way two new kids dropped in last night.”

“I didn’t see anyone.”

“You weren’t supposed to. Not very clandestine if they come in with lights
flashing now” he said teasingly. “Anyway, the short one over there, next
to the drum?”

“Yep”

“He’s a triple A no goer for shellfish.”

“Oh. Ok. Thanks.”

When I first joined the 2/34 such exchanges would seemed nonsensical, a
jumbled non sequitur. I’d since learnt that impression couldn’t have been
further from the truth. The flash seals that were the standard response to any
gapping wound contained seafood extracts, mainly shellfish, nothing better had
been found in 200 years. Unfortunately, allergies to those components often
caused anaphylaxis. Talk about a killer cure.

“Time to roll!” the CSM roared, weaving through the transports and APCs
and heading for one of the forward jeeps.

Paulie patted my shoulder, pushed up and jogged to the back of the truck.
Gripping the bar above the hatch he swung up, tucking his legs up underneath
him, before shooting feet first through the hatch. He made it looks so easy. I
always had to use the little foot ladder.

Without having to be roused, Rurik was instantly awake. He pushed back his
helmet, got to his feet and walked down to the hatch.

“All coomfvee?” he bellowed, pounding his fist on the side of the
transport.

There was a thudded response and an affirmative chorus from inside.

I pulled myself to my feet and climbed up in through the forward door. Pulling
the heavy door shut behind me it clanged into place, the seal hissing shut. I
clicked into my harness and then unclicked it to check it in case of an
emergency. After I’d been caught in a truck that had hit a mine I’d
developed an almost obsessive compulsion to check and triple check all safety
equipment. I’d felt quite embarrassed about it initially, like I was being
overly cautious, but Rurik had assured me it was actually a good thing. Rather
than something to be ashamed of, it was quite prudent as vehicles in service
developed their own idiosyncratic quirks. They were dented or warped in their
own peculiar way and it paid to know how to work them in a hurry.

Rurik coaxed the transport to life, with a sputtering roar it rumbled and
jolted forward. Pulling into line in the convoy we started snaking off into
the desert plain. Again. As always we only crept along. I swear it felt so
slow that a crippled tortoise would have left us for dust. The slow speed
dragged on the nerves a little, but was necessary so that the recovery and
engineering flatbeds could be protected. They were in the centre of the
convoy. Not that it made much difference of late. Originally it would have
been sufficient, but the Kra’Vak had got cleverer in their attacks. Their
mines either had delay fuses or they were being operated remotely. Vehicles on
point no longer set them off, rather they would go off mid stream, just where
they would cause the most damage and mayhem amongst the line of vehicles.
Penned in by haphazard minefields and treacherous terrain there was usually
nothing for it but to deploy guards (in order to see off any ambushes) while
the damaged vehicle was repaired or stripped, pushed off the road and
destroyed.

I finished reading an e-pub Robin had leant me, a trashy spacer
thriller. Those things were so predictable, but I’d read everything else
four times over. I tried snoozing, but wasn’t tired so I just stared out the
window. Behind my glassy gaze I contemplated whether I could start pulling
material together for a puff piece for Valentines Day. It wasn’t pressing,
months off; and not that there was any romance going on here, but right this
instant nothing much was going on full stop and my mind had taken to
entertaining itself.

There was a tapping behind my head. Turning round I pushed back the screen to
the body of the transport, where the troops sat buckled in against the walls,
all their kit stowed in the central well.

Baz had his harmonica out and the others were mangling favourite marching
tunes. Singers they were not, no matter how enthusiastic.

“Come on Rurik, give us a tune before this lot send me deaf” a disembodied
voice pleaded through the portal from just out of sight.

With a toothy grin Rurik began to sing, with a thick rumbling richness.

“Once oopon ar time zere vas ar tavern Vhere vay oosed to raeese ar glass or
twooo Raymember how vay laughed away zay hours, And dreamed of all zay great
zings vay voold do

Zose vere zay daays my freend Ve zought zey’d nayver end! Ve'd seeng arnd
dance forayverrrrrr Ve'd leeve ze leefe vay choooose Ve'd feeght arnd nayver
looooose For ve vere young arnd….”

I noticed a jeep skirting the edge of the convoy, in an obvious hurry. It was
unusual for anyone to take the risk of running the edge like that. In past
wars they would have grav hopped, but we didn’t have the logistics trail for
that. We were all ground based. It was still strange. Typically they would
have just used comms to pass on their message, something was up. Drawing
breath to comment on the incongruous scene, I felt the thud even as I saw the
truck three in front of us burst upward. As if in slow motion arcs of metal
and fire unfolded, forming a combusting rosette. The centre of the blast left
glowing shapes even as I instinctively ducked, gripping the dash. A wave of
sound rolled over us, the accompanying shock wave buffeted the vehicle, which
rocked on its shocks. The trapped dust and metallic slivers sounded like hail
on the bonnet and roof interspersed with larger clangs
as the truck was pelted with plate-sized chunks of twisted shrapnel. The
forward port and sides reverberated with the contacts. Through the haze the
florid hues of the explosion were quickly replaced with the oranges and red of
a vehicle fire.

I grabbed my medkit, checked my mask was in place and pulled the door handle
down and round, releasing the seal. With a grunt I pushed open the heavy door
and leapt down to the road, shoving the heavy door back into place. The heat
of the burning truck warming the skin of my face that ringed the mask and was
exposed to the bitter Martian cold. The smell of fuel and wreckage was
choking, thick smoke accumulating over the debris field. As I moved forward I
could see the remains of the truck were a jagged inconsistent morass
stretching from the seat of the blast down the embankment to the plain. As I
drew even with the back of the neighbouring truck I realised it’d been
wrecked too. Its cabin lost, the front of the truck peeled back like a
grotesque cybernetic seed pod.

It was obvious no one in the target truck had survived the bomb and the driver
and front passenger of the neighbouring truck had been decapitated. Their
mangled bodies sagging in what remained of their harnesses. They were beyond
help and my stomach churned at the sight. Fighting down my nausea I forced my
mind into reporting mode, where everything was just an abstract scene.

“What do we do Jock?”

Turning I saw Pvt’s Cooper Halliday and Matt Shepard had followed me from
our truck. “Can you grab me a couple of bags from the locker?….Ahhh…
they didn’t make it.” I replied with a subdued nod in the direction of the
wreckage. “I’ll check the m… back.” Since the first few days of this
patrol deployment the cargo sections of the troop carriers had been
affectionately termed “meat lockers”, but given what this one might hold
the name had suddenly seemed potentially too literal to use; especially since
there hadn’t been any movement from within, despite the carnage at the front
of the vehicle.

I tried the latch and the door stayed stuck. Its clean lines had been warped
by the chassis damage, but it didn’t seem too bad. More ominously it was hot
to the touch. The impact of the explosion must have started a fire, though the
integrated extinguishers should have quenched it rapidly. I braced against the
frame and pulled again, grunting with the effort. When it finally gave with a
sudden rush I stumbled back, wrong footed, greeted by the groaning of dying
men. There was the sickly smell of burnt flesh and fried electronics. The
pungent smoke was sharp despite my filter mask and I couldn’t see a thing.
Gingerly pushing the hatch wider, I reached in for the light, but the touch
panel wouldn’t respond. Figures. I flicked my specs to night vision and
pulled myself up on to the rim of the back hatch. There were eight bodies
inside. Three alive enough to register their distress, the other five still. I
stepped in over the body of Lt Irvine, a grocer from the Hope settlement,
north of the Ophir Gulf off the Marineris Sea. His temple crushed and neck
clearly broken. He mustn’t have been strapped in. I reached Sgt Watanabe,
sitting against the left side, his face was a mass of cuts and his lap was
slick with blood. His breath gurgling in my ear. I eased back his harness and
ran my fingers down the edge of his chest plate. It was a warm sticky mass and
I could feel the jagged end of 3 ribs. Next was Anderson, who also had severe
chest and head injuries, the back of his skull depressed from where it had hit
the side of the truck. Beside him Sumayya had burns down his left side, and
the flesh was tattered, having taken the brunt of what had come in from the
cabin. The fifth occupant was unrecognisable. Thankfully he had no pulse.
Opposite Sumayya was Cpl Fowler, who was also dead, a cruel laceration running
through the upper half of his arm, across his shoulder and ending with a
jagged splinter that had impaled his throat and pinned him to the upholstery.
Going full circle, privates Ryan Croft and Maxie Wiggins were sitting on the
right rear side. They were both burnt, cut and in bad shape. The lenses of
Croft’s specs had blown in, entering his eyes, which were swelling fast, the
useless frames still hung from his ears. Wiggins, was better off though the
insides of her legs were fairly badly burnt.

“Three down, we need some serious help in here” I called out the back
hatch and over the radio at one.

“DOWN! DOWN! Incoming! Rockets at 2 o’clock.”

There was pounding on the truck’s side and the CSM’s shadowed face loomed
in the rear hatch.

“You gotta get out Jock, we’re taking fire and this hulk isn’t
safe.”

As if to prove his point there was a dull thud. The CSM stepped back to look
and I leaned out too, gripping the roof and twisting to look back over the
remnants of the truck. Roughly 20 metres down the road, an APC had suffered a
glancing blow.

“Report” the CSM called

“Minor scrapes only, we’re good to go”

Switching his attention back to me the CSM said “Jock we need to move the
truck…”

Reg appeared at the rear hatch “What’s the story Jock?”

“5 KIA, 3 critical – 1 with abdominal wounds, 2 with extensive lacerations
and burns. CASEVAC required pronto.”

Looking from me to Reg the CSM said “Ok we can have two VTOLs on station in
under 20 minutes. I reckon you two have half that before we’re knee deep in
Krak.”

He was wrong the Krak arrived en masse in 8 minutes. Opening up with small
arms and RPGs. We had Ryan and Maxie out and strapped to stretchers ready for
evac and were just securing Watanabe when a transport towards the back of the
convoy exploded. I caught sight of the driver leaping from the cabin, but a
ball of orange flame, which blended with the fulvous landscape, obscured the
rest. The black smoke added to the haze already filling the air.

The small arms raking the flank switched from harassing to a level meant to
annihilate. The air was literally thick with bullets. SNAP. POP. The air
abounded with shells striking armour, hitting the thick glass of windscreens
and ricocheting off trucks, jeeps and storage bins. Reg ducked low radioing
through information to the approaching VTOLs.

In under 10 minutes we had 4 more dead and 3 more vehicles near the rear of
the convoy had been disabled. Reg and I helped run the wounded over to the
VTOLs, which dropped almost straight down to the desert floor behind our
position. Then they slid along just off the dirt, with out setting down. It
was dangerous for them hovering there, but they could move about a little,
help their survival. It was a challenge for us to load the wounded smoothly,
but better than them succumbing to an RPG. As soon as the last of the most
severely injured were on board they rose up and peeled away.

I moved back along the string of trucks. Bent low I threaded my way back
toward the carnage, in case there were more wounded who needed tending.
Pausing by bumpers, dodging past the gaps and trying to stay out of the way. I
finally reached the three stuck vehicles. One was an APC, one a support truck
and the last a small command jeep. The jeep was all but destroyed and with a
section further along providing covering fire we managed to push it off the
road and out of the way. The other two were salvageable, mainly just tire and
plant damage, if only we could give the mechanics a little time.

Lance corporals Burton, Vallegis and Lankowski were the best mechanics I’ve
ever met and the bravest, or craziest people I have ever known. Even in the
centre of a ferocious firefight they could get things running using bailing
twine, gum and ornery determination. The CSM had kept the main body of the
platoon deployed with their own vehicles, but had a section arrayed around the
disabled vehicles to give maximum covering fire. This was a perilous position,
as a small break had formed in the body of the convoy, the damaged vehicles a
little behind the forward body of the convoy and a little ahead of the rear
body of the patrol and were attracting heavy fire. Tucked in behind the truck
I listened to bullets strike its chassis with little real effect. Even when
stuck by a string of RPGs it only shuddered. While not doing much physical
damage, the clamour was thunderous. Increasingly smoke and dust obscured the
view of the battle. I could see flares of muzzle flash, but I was finding it
hard to see anything else beyond the side of the truck now. The noise made my
ears ache, however.

“Jock, we need you back here, come straight back along your 6 and keep
down”

Crawling on my elbows and knees across the open ground to the disabled
vehicles, the pebbles shifting under my weight, an amazing scene coalesced out
of the dust. Burton and Vallegis were working on the truck and Lankowski on
the APC. Each had their attention anchored to their charge, ignoring the
bullets cutting up the ground about their feet or ringing off the armour
beside them. Next thing Burton is wiggling under the support truck as if he
was in the shop, his heals sliding in the grit as he pushed further under.

“Jock, over here by the aft tyres.”

“Aft Reg? We’re not in space now mate.”

“Sorry old habits.”

Snaking forward along the side of the truck I could see Reg bent over a
private, working to staunch the blood from her badly wounded thigh. Beside her
a squad mate was rolled on his side vomiting blood. It was clear he would not
survive until the VTOL’s return. It was my job to make him as comfortable as
possible.

Burton and Vallegis expedited the recovery of the support truck. They had it
going again in under fifteen minutes and rolled her forward to rejoin the
forward part of the patrol. Lankowski was having less luck with the APC.
Bullets snapped around him as he climbed out the top hatch and jumped to the
ground. He had sorted an electrical break inside, but the missile strike had
thrown a track. That was going to complicate things enormously. Burton and
Vallegis came back to help hook up the lines and remount the track. Twenty
minutes later they were negotiating the final pin when a bullet hit Burton in
the shoulder and he dropped his crowbar, the fulcrum collapsing and crushing
Lankowski’s arm. Five of us raced in, trying to free his arm. His screaming
was piercing. We were soon sweating from the exertion, the sweat quickly
turning into a clammy chill in the cold Martian air.

WhoooshhhBAMMM. An RPG flew to the left, spraying us with fist-sized
chunks of rock. WhoooshhhBAMMM, another hit to the right. Instinctively we
ducked lower, taking as much cover as we could while still working to free
Lankowski. The soldiers around us opened up in response, then I heard the
distinct rattle of nearby machine guns and finally 30mm. Lankowski’s
screaming was becoming hoarse, but we just about had his arm free. SNAP. Even
with all the gunfire the sudden end to the screaming made the place seem oddly
quiet. Lankowski had been hit in the head. Those are the toughest. When you
have committed all you have and just as you reach the line it’s erased with
a single shot.

With Burton directing through gritted teeth, Vallegis and two of the section
got the track remounted and the APC was good to go.

The fight was still going strong. I moved forward ducking in behind an APC
about a third of the way down the column. Jeff scuttled up and distributed
ammo, diving full length behind the rear of the APC at the first hint of an
incoming RPG.

WHAM!! It had hit the front of the APC, showering the ground with shrapnel.
New clouds of fine red dust sprouting up like giant rosy mushrooms and further
cutting out the light. My head was ringing so intensely I felt like I had lost
control of my depth perception and was running on remote control. I had to
fight for command of my limbs, to shake my head and clear my stunned senses. I
could hear screaming from near the front of the vehicle; between it and the
next troop transport. I saw Reg take off towards the screams and ran after
him. Bent low, my ears still ringing I ducked around the corner of the APC and
dropped to one knee. Looking about three had been hit. One was badly maimed,
missing both an arm, and a leg and with deep gashes along most of his body.
Another had a shattered mask, her cheek smashed underneath and a portion of
her skull missing. The third, the closest was bent over retching. He was in
profile and miraculously didn’t look hurt. Leaning in I laid my hand on his
shoulder and asked if he was ok. Turning to look at me I could see he had a
spray of cuts up his chest from slivers of shrapnel.

“They’re… they’re gone” he half sobbed, gulping and gesturing toward
the front of the APC behind me. Twisting on my heel I turned to look back to
where he indicated. There was a splatter of blood, bone, bits of hair and
other body parts and bloody, shredded gear spread over and about the front of
the vehicle. A wedge of helmet rocked against the front right wheel.

Reg and I set about stabilising the newly wounded. The CSM and Sgt Willis came
to help. Their protective nature meaning they preferred to save their men the
trauma of cleaning up the remains of their friends. It was clear to us all
that we needed to get moving fast or the casualties would continue to mount
and we’d become hopelessly trapped. The trick was how, with small arms still
snapping at us unabated.

We were helping the soldier with head wounds on to a stretcher when the Lt Col
came over the radio. Calm as ever he called for a fighting remount and a push
beyond the plain into the low hills beyond. Push for the higher ground.

With the casualty secured I headed back for my own truck. It took me a while,
as I had to scamper between vehicles, my chest beginning to ache under the
weight of the armour and kit I was carrying. I wasn’t sure whether the grit
pounding my boots was just from the gravel of the road or from bullets
impacting nearby, but it certainly felt as if the air buzzed with fire. My
heart was in my throat, my ears were pounding and I could feel my temples
throbbing. I finally made it back to our truck and swung inside, panting.
Rurik was checking everything was secure before firing the engine.

The dust was still thick and Rurik was forced to drive using his thermal
imaging monitor. “Eto piz`dets! I hate zis zing.” Rurik cursed his face
creased in concentration. Reaching to the dash he punched a selector and
suddenly ghostly images of the battlefield appeared across the windscreen.
Rurik was obviously concentrating on the vehicles in front and the dotted
lines marking the edge of the road, projected by
the nav-AI onto the image. The image that drew my attention however was
the band of armed ghosts flitting between the rocky boulders at the edge of
the plain to our right. They were obviously a fair distance away, their
phantasmic silhouettes fairly small against the terrain, but they were making
up ground fast.

In the split second I spent wondering if anyone else had seen them too, I
caught movement out of the corner of my eye. The outline of the gun on top of
the vehicle in front traversed to cover the approaching attackers. There was a
series of flashes as the gun fired. The screen filters damped the flare, but
it was still enough to make you wince. The shots were good, landing amongst
the approaching figures, sending them flying or tearing them apart. The dull
thud of the shell landing reaching my ears as the bodies arced back to earth.

Rurik, the other drivers and the many gunners still had a long tense few
hours, but the worst was over and the patrol rolled on.

***

Just before sunrise on the 7th, after we’d pitched camp and made everything
secure, the bulk of the patrol gathered in the mess, spilling out onto the
sand outside, to pay their respects. As always Iron George’s compassion,
intelligence, courage and determination were plan for all to see. His pride in
his troops rivalled only by his desire to share their risks equally and to
protect them from pointless harm. As always he chose his words with consummate
skill and standing in front of the holo’s of the recently dead he recharged
the numb and tired bodies and mourning minds. Soon a new day would blur into
the last and the mission would continue despite very little sleep, but no one
would want for a reason to continue.